


recommended for you

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Keith (Voltron) is a Dork, M/M, POV Shiro (Voltron), domestic sheith, post canon but nothing will hurt you here you have my WORD, shiro is stupid in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Shiro loves Keith to the end of the universe and back. Figuratively, and, most often, literally. Long distance---and that means long distance (space is big, more at eleven)---isn’t easy sometimes, but they make it work. Except for, not this week. Because this week, Keith is on leave from his position with the Blades, living aboard the Atlas with Shiro, and everything is good.It’s just...slightly weird how Keith keeps hiding a particular video clip whenever Shiro walks into the room.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 159





	recommended for you

***

Dying, in a physical sense. Only to exist on another plane of reality, in a metaphysical sense. To then somehow have one’s incorporeal self integrated into a mass manufactured clone of one’s former physical form. And from there proceed to be instrumental in saving all realities in the multiverse…

One might think that such a journey really keeps things in perspective. Sets the tone for the remainder of one’s days. Transforms a person into something resembling a living, breathing, inspirational cross stitch pillow: ‘Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.’ ‘Live. Laugh. Love.’ ‘Carpe Diem.’ 

One might think that. 

One might not realize, that, in actuality, it just leaves a person really tired. 

Really. 

Fucking. 

Tired. 

“I’m sorry,  _ what? _ ” Shiro flicks two metal fingers up the holoscreen, words like ‘unauthorized use of coaxial cargo links’ and ‘damaged propulsion unit’ jumping out of the report. 

“Um. The engineering tech on the floor at the time can verify, Captain,” the ensign tries again, obviously growing uneasy. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but, to his credit, his voice doesn’t waver. “The cargo shuttles were docked at their respective units by 1400 AST, sir.” 

Shiro sets down the datapad, leaning back in his chair to give the three young crew members in front of him his full attention. “Is that right?” 

“Yessir,” another one, by the name of Stevenson, pipes in. Her face is slightly flushed. “We  _ absolutely _ had them back on time.” 

Shiro briefly considers what it is that he must have done to warrant everything he’s been through. Hard to say, really. He wants to sigh, but that would be inappropriate of his rank so he settles for pinching the bridge of his nose. When he recovers: “So you weren’t late. That’s nice. What about the damage sustained to the portside on S-012?” 

Stevenson looks at Asley and Mulloy. Shiro raises his eyebrows. 

“...Potential debris collision from the previous assignment?” Mulloy ventures. Asley’s shoulders go tense. Stevenson is studying the back wall of Shiro’s office, determined not to make eye contact. 

“Mmmhmm.” Shiro weighs his options with a slight side-to-side bob of his head. “Huh.” He widens the holoscreen in front of him with a pinching movement, and flips it around so that the video will be clearly visible to them as well. The footage of the shuttle marked S-012 during the afternoon’s haul is paused. 

Clearly unimpressed, Shiro purses his lips and hits play: Asley is bent over the controls, laying on the speed, Stevenson is whooping out of the back hatch, and Mulloy is being pulled some few meters back via a transport cable and a balancing on a makeshift hoverboard. 

“Debris.” Shiro repeats, “Huh.” 

The four of them watch in silence as the humble shuttle vessel stalls under the strain, Stevenson tumbles back into the hold, and Mulloy ends up ramming into the side as he loses control of the hoverboard as soon as the cable goes slack. He careens into the shuttle at considerable speed. 

“Ouch.” Shiro comments. He clicks off the footage. “Your shoulder okay?” 

“Just bruised,” Mulloy winces. “Sir.” 

“That’s great.” Shiro smiles. “Glad to hear it. Just like I’m so glad to hear that Lt. Harten has a place for all three of you on her away mission at the end of the month. It’s an excellent opportunity---select members of the Coalition are going to be planetside for two whole movements---”

He doesn’t mention that the planet’s surface is covered in what is basically sticky pink goop; diplomatic relations with planet Smoo are going to involve wading through uncomfortable amounts of gelatin. But that’s no doubt understood, 

“And in the meantime,” Shiro informs them, “Iverson has graciously agreed to give the three of you remedial lessons in standard operating procedure for  _ all _ actionable shuttle carriages.” 

The collective groan is almost palpable, but the young officers manage to keep them under wraps. Barely. 

Shiro taps the door to his office open with a pert little: “Dismissed.” 

After they’ve filed out, he slumps back into the chair. 

Only to catch sight of the long list of unopened e-mails in his inbox. 

This is nothing compared to the eventual, inevitable heat death of the universe, Shiro reminds himself. 

(Sometimes it helps to keep things in perspective.) 

So. Fucking. Tired. 

*

By the time Shiro is finished with his work for the day, it’s well past the standard day cycle operating hours for the Atlas crew. He’s exhausted. But even so, Shiro’s boots have reason to clip down the halls at a much faster rate than those of his crew enjoying their leisure time for the evening. 

“Honey, I’m  _ hooome, _ ” Shiro calls out, droll and grinning, unbuttoning the collar of his uniform as the door to the captain’s quarters slides shut noiselessly behind him. 

He listens for Keith’s bemused huff at the hokey greeting, and when it doesn’t come, Shiro steps out of his shoes and trots over to the length of gray couch where Keith can usually be found when he’s aboard the Atlas, either curled up with a paperback, or sprawled out asleep. Sometimes he’ll be so caught between the pages---Keith favors blood-and-thunder westerns and the kinds of mysteries where it all gets worked out in the end---that he won’t notice Shiro come in, and Shiro will get to witness that precious line where Keith’s brows are drawn together as he concentrates, gently nibbling at his bottom lip while he reads. 

He’s not there. 

“Keith!” Shiro calls, padding past the kitchenette to their bedroom. The long window that spans the length of their apartment is unshuttered, the inky black of space stretching out endlessly, only the light from the Atlas herself cutting through the darkness.

There’s a telling blue glow filtering from the open bedroom door out into the hallway. As Shiro gets closer, it’s accompanied by...dialogue? It sounds recorded, not like Keith is on a telecall. The sound is muffled; the voices aren’t noticeably familiar. A video. 

“Keith?” Shiro calls again, entering the room, 

Just in time to see Keith’s shoulders shoot up in surprise. Keith moves too fluidly to ‘scramble’ but he  _ does _ slap the holoscreen closed so fast that the desk rattles against the wall and the holoport gets swatted to the floor. And flung halfway across the room. 

It...might be broken. Shiro eyes the USB sized device where it’s now laying forlorn on the carpet next to their bed. “Keith…” 

Keith darts forward to scoop it up and slides the device into the desk drawer without comment, as if this is a totally normal thing to do. “Shiro,” he says, oddly breathless, “I’m glad you’re home,” 

Which borders on dramatic, considering that Shiro hasn’t left the ship today, and also that he and Keith ate breakfast together, approximately twelve varga earlier. 

“What were you wa…” the question about the video gets lost somewhere between the feel of Keith’s silky hair tickling Shiro’s face, and his solid hands pulling Shiro’s undershirt untucked from his uniform slacks. There’s the feeling of his fingertips---his thumb, index, and middle all have telling calluses that end where his fingerless gloves usually begin---rough skin and gentle pressure, pulling Shiro in. 

When Shiro tilts his head just so, it’s natural to find Keith’s mouth waiting, perfectly in sync as they come together. The kiss is slow and sweet, comfortable like Shiro’s favorite faded muscle tee that Keith always seems to steal from the laundry. 

Shiro parts from him with a smile. “If you missed me that much, you know you could have joined me in the office.” It borders on sardonic, so he softens the sentiment with a teasing brush of his thumb against Keith’s jaw. 

Keith snorts, a puff of air against Shiro’s lips. “And risk being saddled with another project?” He scowls. “Or paperwork?” He untangles his arms from around Shiro’s neck and pats his chest. “No thanks.” 

Shiro tilts his head, like,  _ fair enough.  _ He shrugs off the starchy uniform jacket and hangs it up in the closet before it gets wrinkled. 

Keith sinks to the bed, stretching his arms above his head before falling backwards, utterly at ease. His shirt rides up enough for Shiro to catch the way the dark hair on his stomach trails past the waistband of his boxers. To say it’s a nice image to come home to is an understatement. 

(The eventual heat death of the universe will have to take place some other night. Because Shiro is not giving this up.)

“Heard the thing with the Agaens got postponed.” 

Shiro makes a disgruntled noise as he undoes his belt and steps out of his pants. They get hung up as well, next to his coat. He retrieves well-worn sweatpants from a hook on the inside of the door. “Yes. Great. Now, since the date is indefinite, it makes it much more difficult to use the excuse that I have plans.” 

(It’s not that Shiro finds diplomacy especially tedious---as much as he thinks of himself as a pilot first and everything else second, this _ is  _ part of his job---but the last time he was in the Agae system, he somehow got mixed up in a ceremony meant to bestow increased virility on the participants. It was an honor. It was mortifying. Allura  _ still  _ makes jokes about it. He can’t.) 

Keith flips over onto his side to give Shiro a wolfish grin. 

“Don’t.” Shiro warns. 

“I was just gonna say,” Keith says, sitting up and feigning innocence, “I think I remember that the Blades  _ really _ need your support that month. In person. Whenever that happens to be.” 

“Is that right?” Shiro tilts his head. “Huh. Guess I’m booked.” 

“Yeah,” Keith nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You are.” 

Shiro beams at him. 

Fuck, it’s good to have Keith here. 

After the war ended, the two of them came together, natural and effortless and beautiful---like the way a blue sky can light up all firepink and red and orange. There was no clumsy first date with Keith, no doubt in Shiro’s heart, no fumbling words, just a slow and steady build into something profound. He first kissed Keith when their blood was still beating fast with adrenaline from Voltron’s last battle. Keith moved into his quarters that same night. 

But even though they are together---inextricably so---Keith is not always aboard the Atlas. His time is divided. Between the politics on Daibazaal and the duties that come with leading the Blades, Keith is off the ship more often than not. And it’s not as if the Atlas is a fixed point, either. The Coalition is spreading throughout many galaxies, and Shiro and his crew are the ones pushing the boundaries. The majority of Shiro and Keith’s  _ relationship _ -relationship has been long distance telecalls and holochats and triplicate encrypted text messages. 

That doesn’t matter. Keith is worth everything. Every effort. They make it work. 

And, for now, Keith is on a short leave, a few rare days of rest. He returned from a mission with the Blades just the day before yesterday. And he’ll be staying at least a movement. Maybe two. It won’t be enough, it never is, but. That’s a problem for future Shiro. Best of luck, Captain. 

Shiro remembers the video clip that Keith was so quick to shut down. “What was it you were watching? Just now?” He’s thinking that he doesn’t want any unexpected trouble to take Keith away early. 

“Have you eaten?” Keith asks, his voice a little loud and otherwise painfully obvious in the way that he avoids the question. His mouth is scrunched up in a frown. 

He gets up, shuffling past Shiro’s questioning gaze and marches out of the room toward the kitchenette. Shiro trails after him. “Keith?” 

“I bet you’re hungry,” Keith tells the contents of the fridge. He’s barefoot in front of it, yellow light casting the shadow of his long legs onto the tile floor. The hem of his boxers is frayed on one side, but Keith is too much of a cheapskate to throw anything away. 

“I had a protein bar,” Shiro tells him. It was a few hours ago, but he was too busy to dip into the mess hall during dinner hours. 

Keith scowls as if the mere concept of protein bars---or any other prepackaged meal substitute---is offensive to him personally. He pulls out a tupperware of leftover pasta and shoo’s Shiro out of the way to shovel it on a plate. And sticks the plate in the microwave. 

“Taking good care of me,” Shiro trills as Keith hands him a glass of water and motions for him to sit down. It has ice cubes and everything. This must be what the people call Domestic Bliss. 

“Always,” Keith breathes in response, no doubt unaware that he’s still within earshot as Shiro settles into his favorite side of the couch. 

The microwave dings and Shiro can hear the clatter as Keith shoves another plate of leftovers in it, for himself this time. He joins Shiro on the couch a few moments later, passing him a plate of pasta and a regulation spork before he settles down on the cushion next to him. He unsticks two cans of beer from the crook of his arm and sets them on the coffee table, amidst stacks of file folders and expense reports, and a multitude of different colored sticky notes. 

As soon as Shiro starts eating, he finds that he really is hungry. And Keith never misses a chance to put away as much food as possible---Shiro has wondered where  _ exactly _ it all goes for  _ years _ , ever since he witnessed Keith down two Double-Doubles and a chocolate shake as a first year cadet.

“You’ll like this,” Shiro says between bites. “I had to have a chat with the delta-7-transport crew today.” 

Keith looks at him with dark, serious eyes, his mouth full. “Yeah?” He asks, cheeks still stuffed. 

“They created a new sport with the transport vessels: space skiing.” Keith listens as Shiro relates the incident from before in dry and scathing details. 

“That’s stupid,” Keith decides, once the story’s been told and his plate is scraped clean. He belches and takes a long, satisfied sip from his beer. “There’s a standard safety mechanism they could easily disable. Those shuttles can go twice as fast as their specs say.” 

Shiro is aware. “ _ Please _ don’t tell them that.” 

Keith frowns, caught now in the idea. “And, pulling just one person? That’s nothing. Those things are made to haul literal  _ tons _ of shit. They really stalled out? What are they teaching these kids?” 

“Probably not how to disable integral safety systems,” Shiro comments. 

Keith scoffs. He mutters something under his breath, stewing about it until Shiro catches his eye. 

“It was a long day,” Shiro admits, and Keith immediately softens. “I’m glad to be home.” 

“I’m glad too, Shiro,” Keith says, smile small and genuine and heartbreakingly sweet. Shiro aches with the sweetness of it. 

And, by the time they’ve finished eating, and the dirty dishes are piled in the sink, and Keith has expertly maneuvered himself into Shiro’s lap---

And his mouth is hot, and his thighs are solid at Shiro’s hips, and his hands are relentless in their mission to uncover Shiro’s skin---

By that time, Shiro has forgotten all about the video on the holoport. 

*

He doesn’t remember about the mysterious video until the following afternoon. 

Although his a.m. briefing with the ship’s officers couldn’t be avoided, it’s a near miracle that Shiro’s schedule is clear for the afternoon. (And evening! Whatever deity governs the schedules of spaceships and their captains must be thanked accordingly.) Figuring that Keith would be beginning to get antsy with his vacation time, Shiro planned to surprise him---there’s a new addition to Atlas’ fleet in Hangar L, fresh from the stockyards of a pretty little planet in the Phlargel system, and someone has to be the one to break her in. Her specs boast maneuverability and speed that outmatches anything else they’ve got. Supposedly.  _ Supposedly.  _

Regardless, Shiro is itching to see what she can do firsthand, and the only thing that’s better than flying the new ship himself, is seeing what Keith can do at the helm. 

(And if the flight data gets collected post haste and the rest of the afternoon turns into more of a private joyride...well. There’s no one that outranks either of them for at least a few hundred lightyears.) 

He walks into their apartment unannounced this time. 

As soon as the door opens, he’s hit by a veritable wall of sound. Music is blaring from the speakers so loud that Shiro can feel the vibrating bass in his teeth. He calls Keith’s name over the song, but his voice is eaten up by the noise. Shiro shakes his head, half amused, half wondering what the hell Keith is doing. As the song ends, the steady beat fades. Before the next one can begin, he hears water running in the bathroom. 

Not just water  _ running _ \---sloshing and splashing and  _ what the fuck _ ...has the Atlas taken it upon herself to manifest an actual Wet’n’Wild theme park in his bathroom?

And then the splashing chaos is drowned out by a familiar opening chord and Shiro catches himself falling headfirst into nostalgia, immediately transported back in time to hotter-than-hell Garrison garages and Keith fiddling with the radio. (Keith---young then, so young---chewing on a hangnail, feet dangling from his spot on the saddle of a hoverbike, watching Shiro with interest and just the slightest touch of awe.) Keith was too guarded to sing along back then, but it was always clear he had a weird thing for softrock. Evidently, space hasn’t tempered his love for big hair bands. 

Shiro is smiling like a goon as he heads deeper into the apartment to find Keith...and figure out exactly what the hell is going on. 

There’s steam rolling out of the bathroom door and the  _ clickclick _ of monstrous claws on tile and Keith’s normally low voice shouting over the synth. Shiro is starting to get an idea of what he might be walking into. 

He still isn’t prepared: 

In the hall, puddles of water and fluffy white bath towels flung out of the bathroom door. 

Blue fur stuck to the walls. Shiro glances upward. And the ceiling. He edges closer. 

An abandoned novelty cup (‘Big Slurp’ sized, a relic from a fuel station in Gromflom) that may or may not have fulfilled some kind of purpose. 

He ducks inside the door to see the massive space-wolf drenched and taking up the entirety of the bathtub. She sits about shoulder high at this point, and the bathroom isn’t all that big to begin with. 

Keith is naked, except for a pair of paladin-red swim trunks. (They are significantly tighter than they once were.) His normally sleek hair is all tangled and frizzy and dripping. 

He hasn’t noticed Shiro come in. Shiro leans against the door, watching Keith bobbing his head in time with the music, lather up to his elbows, belting out the song while he gives Kosmo a bath. The overgrown puppy stands, her tail automatically wagging through the suds when she sees Shiro behind Keith. Shiro puts a finger to his lips, like,  _ shhh, _ and her tongue lolls out like a smile. 

The song builds and, still in his own world, Keith picks up the bottle of dog shampoo to use as a microphone: 

_ “Let ‘em say we’re crazy!!--- _

_ What do they know? _

_ Put your arms around me, baby, don’t---”  _

Shiro swoops in and grabs a slippery Keith around the middle. He squawks and squirms and an excited Kosmo boofs into the two of them, sending them both flailing on the slippery tile. Stumbling, one arm holding Keith, Shiro manages to steady himself against the sink with the other arm. He stays upright, no thanks to either of them. 

“Shiro!” Keith shouts, twisting around. He shouts something else, but the music is still blaring and his words are too garbled up in electric guitar solo to be intelligible. Shiro just shakes his head in response. 

Keith grins and rolls his eyes. 

Shiro smiles down at him, pushing Keith’s messy hair off his forehead to kiss against his temple, his hairline, the cowlick and the uneven widow’s peak. 

Keith nuzzles into him, and Shiro sways, mouth now against Keith’s pretty neck. “You smell like wet dog,” he shouts close to Keith’s ear. 

Keith pinches his ass in retaliation, and Shiro jumps, not expecting it. He swats Keith’s hand away, just as he feels the way happiness bubbles up in Keith’s chest against his, just before Keith tosses his head back and laughs. His eyes squeezed tight, mouth wide enough that Shiro catches a glimpse of the metal fillings in a couple of his molars. He’s gorgeous. 

Shiro tugs Keith close, planting yet another kiss on his head, pulling him into a slow sway-shuffle. The inane bump of the 1987 chart topping hit ends, and an even worse song begins. Keith is relaxed against him, content to follow Shiro’s lead and soak his uniform through with suds. 

They slow dance through the next song too, Keith’s raisin-y fingers nestled in the short hair at the back of Shiro’s head, scratching pleasantly against his scalp. Shiro has a hand heavy on the small of Keith’s back, guiding him ever closer as they shuffle around the flooded bathroom. The pulsing synth and corny lyrics that Keith knows by heart. Keith’s head resting on Shiro’s chest. Keith in his arms. And Shiro locked tight in his. There’s no place they’d rather be. 

Keith says something against his chest, and Shiro pulls back, not understanding. “What?” 

He repeats it, face tilted up to shout, but Shiro still doesn’t catch it. 

“Let’s turn the music down,” Shiro suggests. He maneuvers around soggy bath towels to walk across their bedroom. His socks get wet, which is, objectively, the worst thing to happen to him since being cloned. 

Keith’s holoport has several screens open, including one with his music player. 

Shiro frowns. He pushes the music application to the side to get a better look at the screens hovering behind it. 

One of the screens is a video, paused. Two figures are standing, facing each other. 

There’s a separate screen, a different video. Similar set up. 

A third. Different people from the first two, this time one of the individuals seems to be kneeling. 

All together there’s at least seven different video clips on different screens hovering above the desk. Shiro finds the music application and shuts it off. 

“Keith…” His voice sounds strange now in the silence after the music was so loud. “What is all this?” 

Keith follows him out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his neck. “What’s what?” 

Shiro can see the exact moment that Keith notices that all the holoscreens are still open. His mouth drops into an ‘O’ and his eyes get wide. “Nothing!!” 

Keith scoots past him and shuts all the screens at once with a firm click on the holoport. “It’s. Uh. Nothing. Don’t worry about it, Shiro.” He takes the device and fiddles with it for a moment before tucking it into his fist. 

Shiro tilts his head. It didn’t look like nothing. 

He’d press further---like asking why is Keith’s face the same color as his first Lion if it’s  _ nothing _ \---but then, 

Kosmo appears out of nowhere, no longer sudsy, but still soaking wet, and now...Yep. The cosmic space monster fades out of the doorway, and reappears. On top of their bed. Tail wagging madly, mouth open in a playful bark. Sopping wet over their sheets. Right after wash-your-sheets-Wednesday, too. Shiro winces. 

She shakes off---her massive floof sends water droplets every which way---

“No!” Keith yelps. He looks to Shiro---they both rush forward, but it’s no use. Sensing a game, Kosmo phases out of reality again. 

“Shit!” Keith swears. “Shiro! The couch!” 

And then the two of them are off, armed with towels and running through the apartment after a very drippy dog. 

*

It must be porn.

This particular epiphany about the mysterious video strikes Shiro as he’s in the bathroom off the captain suite’s master bedroom, right where he and Keith slow danced before, except for now the floor is dry and most of the dog hair has been swept up.  _ Most _ of it. 

It’s several hours later. The two of them cleaned up the soapy mess, and from there continued with Shiro’s plans for the afternoon. He and Keith collected the flight data, 

(Shiro was not exactly astonished to find that the claims made by the ship’s manufacturers were, to phrase it kindly, grossly embellished. He was even less surprised that Keith was able to coax even a mediocre vessel to perform near miracles in space flight. When Shiro told him as much, poorly concealed swagger twitched over the corners of Keith’s mouth...before he rolled the jet in a perfectly executed inverted helix. Shiro found the maneuver more attractive than he logically should have. Also not surprising. 

After the essential data was transmitted to Atlas, Keith took them out further than even Shiro would have pushed, far from Shiro’s duties as captain, far from any worry the two of them might have had. Far enough to see the remnants of a breathtaking solar flare, just the two of them docked in the waning penumbra of an unnamed planet. Keith’s slow, soft sigh of awe was the only sound for miles. 

And it was there that Shiro had the thought that the war was fought for moments like this: the quiet, unplanned victories like being able to slip his hand in Keith’s for no reason at all. And the way Keith squeezed his hand in return, eyes still alight on the sky above, unaware that Shiro was too caught up in the miracle of  _ them _ to truly notice anything overhead.),

They spent the evening together, even after returning the ship once more to harbor aboard the Atlas. 

And now Shiro is brushing his teeth before bed, and he realizes:

The videos. The videos are porn. Must be. 

He spits and rinses. Grabs the floss. Thoughtfully pulls out a length, snipping it loose from the biodegradable plastic carton while lost in thought. 

If it is porn, and Keith is hiding it, does that mean he’s embarrassed? 

Not every fantasy has to be shared, of course, and Keith is entitled to watch whatever he likes, but...there’s no need for the dramatics. He doesn’t need to be so hush-hush. Shiro pauses, index fingers poised in his mouth with waxy Clean Mint pulled taut betwixt them. 

Shiro frowns and pushes the floss between his molars like he means it. 

Embarrassment doesn’t seem like Keith. He tends to be very…. _ direct  _ about what he wants. 

Also not like Keith: watching porn that would be shocking enough to be embarrassed  _ about.  _

He and Keith are, Shiro will admit solely under pain of death, vanilla. Not missionary-once-a-week-on-Fridays-turn-the-lights-off-lie-back-and-think-of-Altea vanilla. But. 

Their first time together: 

Shiro, desperate to make it good for him. Keith pulling Shiro over him, quiet and intense, inexperienced and smouldering. The way he breathed Shiro’s name against his skin, so eager to please Shiro, so firebright determined to touch, to take, to  _ feel _ , but somehow shy too. Shy in the way he kept his eyes trained elsewhere, only stealing glances at Shiro between his legs, like he was unsure what they were doing could really be happening. Shy in the way that he was quiet---muffled hisses, cut off curses, an arching moan stifled against his knuckles. Shy in the way that he buried his face against Shiro afterwards, mumbling, almost sullen, even as his hands were trembling when Shiro caught them in his own. Remnants of that awkward boy that Shiro thought he had long grown out of resurfacing. Through it all gentle, earnest, devoted. 

Perfect. 

….vanilla. 

Compared with their  _ last _ time together, the previous night: 

Keith, over top of him, bathed in the faintest hint of auxiliary lighting down the hall. His jaw clenched in that beautiful way, hair spilling over his shoulders, relaxing to grin down at Shiro when Shiro reached up to push a dark lock off his forehead. Shiro’s fingers caught in between the strands, caught there as Keith lifted his hips just right. Caught there even as Shiro lost focus and let his head fall back, Keith’s name caught on his lips. Keith’s strong hands on his thighs. Keith’s soft groans in time with Shiro’s “That’s right, Ke--Keith, baby, yes,” babbling and drunk on the feeling of him. When Keith came, with a gasp of Shiro’s name, his body taut and devastating. When he collapsed all sticky skin on top of Shiro with a sigh that sounded like “Takashi.” 

Shiro, on the verge of sleep, lulled by wrung out satisfaction and the pleasant heat that Keith seems to radiate at all times. Only to be roused by Keith snickering something about space skiing, whispering it next to Shiro’s ear until Shiro rolled over to crush him in a kiss. The feel of Keith smiling against his mouth, kiss uncoordinated, both of them messy and laughing and stupid. 

Vanilla. 

Perfect. 

But undeniably vanilla. 

“Why’re you making that face,” Keith appears in the bathroom and reaches across Shiro to grab his toothbrush. He doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving the toothbrush in his mouth and scrubbing with a vengeance. Neither Haggar’s finest nor gingivitis can stand a chance against Keith Kogane. 

Shiro throws the floss away and flashes his pearly whites at Keith. “That was just my flossing face. See?” 

Keith raises his eyebrows in a way that clearly says,  _ the hell?  _

“I was just thinking about---” Shiro starts and then realizes he doesn’t know how to say this politely. He picks up the container of floss and sets it back down. “Vanilla.” He says, lamely. He slides the floss where it goes, next to the toothpaste. “Being. Uh. Vanilla.” 

Keith blinks, spits, blinks again. He frowns, looking at the toothbrush in his hand, then the tube of toothpaste, one end curled up, tucked neatly in its place between the mouthwash and the cup for their toothbrushes. He looks back up at Shiro. “It’s spearmint,” he says flatly. 

Shiro chokes, but, 

Otherwise occupied, Keith turns towards the mirror. He’s not much for fussing with appearances---of the two of them, Shiro is the vain one. 

(And. If anyone has anything to say about it, Shiro would counter with: after trudging through an icy wasteland following escape from his  _ second _ bout of alien imprisonment with nothing but  _ leggings _ between him and the unforgiving elements, he’s entitled to whatever clothes he likes. And. After having his body amputated, cloned, possessed, and yes, actually living  _ body-less _ , he is entitled to a few minutes in the morning primping. He  _ deserves _ designer underwear and a regular haircut from a stylist who, to be frank, is not Coran. Moving on,) 

Keith is not one for fussing with appearances, but he turns towards the mirror, fiddling with the hair tie securing his hair following the wolf-washing event. He must decide he wants to sleep with it unbothered as he reaches up and undoes the elastic band without preamble. The humidity truly didn’t do him any favors: his hair springs out around his head in a ridiculous poof. 

It’s kinked from the hair tie, and still slightly frizzy at the edges. He’s wearing it longer nowadays, messy around his face, almost long enough to reach between his shoulderblades in the back. And right now, a complete bird’s nest. 

Shiro clamps his mouth shut. Fights to turn down his lips. Keith’s hair is sticking straight up and every which way around his solemn, sleepy face. A chuckle still manages to escape and Shiro hacks out a fake cough, hiding it. Keith catches his eyes in the mirror. 

“Shiro? You okay?” Keith asks him, slight frown knitting his brows. 

“It’s nothing. Could not be better,” Shiro swears, raising both hands up in placation.

Keith smiles, far too sweet considering the state of distress his hair is enduring. “Weirdo.” 

And, Shiro decides, 

There’s nothing in the known (or unknown) universe that Keith could be watching on those holoscreens that would lessen the love that Shiro feels for him just then. 

The two of them slide into bed on their respective sides, coming together in the middle. Kosmo (the momentarily clean comic monster) will no doubt find her way to the foot of the bed some time during the night, but for now it’s just them. The room is cool and just dark enough for Shiro to make out one of the freckles that marks Keith’s neck, below his right ear. He smooths Keith’s unruly locks out of the way to see the birthmark better, touch light against Keith’s skin. 

Keith’s hand comes up to encircle Shiro’s wrist, his thumb sliding from Shiro’s pulse point up to the meat of his palm, and back again. Slow and steady and intimate, like a heartbeat. He leans into the touch, smooshing his cheek against Shiro’s hand. 

“Keith,” Shiro starts, curling his fingers to enclose Keith’s. Their two hands knit together, loose and relaxed. 

“Mmm?” 

Shiro means to tell him whatever kind of video clip Keith has been watching, it’s okay. It’s not something he has to hide, or be ashamed of, even if it is wildly graphic alien pornography. However, as is so often Shiro’s lot in life, things don’t go exactly as planned. 

He ends up saying: “Alien porn is okay.” 

Keith stills. He shifts, dropping Shiro’s hand, shuffling to his side to sit up on one elbow. “Huh?”

“Uh-hm-well.” Shiro’s brain is scrambling at two-times-speed and his mouth can’t seem to catch up. He smiles blandly up at Keith and hopes that he’ll get it anyways. “You know. You..” 

Keith takes one measured, calculating look at Shiro. “I’m tired,” he decides, and punches the pillow once before flopping back into the bed. Keith shuffles back towards him, ignoring Shiro’s sputtering attempt at explanation. He pulls the blanket up over them, arranges Shiro’s arms the way he likes, his back to Shiro’s chest, and settles into his little spoon position. 

“Goodnight, Shiro,” Keith says, twisting to kiss somewhere along Shiro’s jaw before he relaxes. 

“Really?” Shiro asks, 

But Keith is talented in many ways, one of which is falling asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

*

Shiro’s thoughts are slow and sluggish as they crawl from sleep into wakefulness. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Must be early. 

Keith is nestled on top of him. He has one hand wrapped around Shiro’s wrist again, his head tucked underneath Shiro’s chin, one leg hooked around Shiro’s. Wildly unkempt hair tickling Shiro’s face. His other hand is flung out across the bed; Shiro shifts, and Keith draws it in, sleepily pulling it close to his chest, ‘til his palm rests on Shiro’s pectoral. His fingers curl into a lazy squeeze. A half-snort escapes from Shiro. Keith tends to be especially possessive when he’s unconscious. 

Shiro lays there, breaths still slow in time with Keith’s. His arm is looped around Keith’s waist, palm resting on the soft skin above the waistband of his boxers. Shiro lets his eyes fall shut again, blanketed by Keith. He feels warm, and content, and very safe. 

…

He feels hot. 

And hard. 

And hot. And  _ oh, fuck, _

And Shiro must have fallen back asleep and  _ fuck _ hecan’tconcentrate. He rolls his hips, trying to adjust, only to find himself pushed back into the mattress. 

Shiro groans; Keith hums. And  _ that _ is the unmistakable feeling of Keith’s mouth.

Shiro’s eyes fly open. He is met with a mop of dark hair positioned between his legs, and one of Keith’s hands steady over his abs. And his mouth…

Shiro slumps back onto the pillow with another groan, “Keith.” 

Keith pauses. Shiro can feel the pull of his smile. The hand atop his abs gently presses, indicating that Shiro should relax. Insisting, actually. 

“Fuck.” Shiro swears, submitting to the feeling. He’s already close. He shudders out a breath, one hand coming up to pinch his own nipples, teasing and then hard. Keith notices, of course he notices, and increases his pace, single-minded determination taking over. 

Shiro doesn’t last long. 

When Keith finally does sit up, he’s bright eyed and satiated. “Mornin’,” he rasps through a smile. His tongue slips out, licking just above his upper lip. Obscene. 

_ “Keith _ ,” Shiro shudders out, like a sigh, like a prayer, like an expletive. Like all three combined. 

Keith grins. Very self satisfied at the response. 

He stands up and stretches in one smooth motion, all slim waist and long legs and lithe, toned arms that arch above his head in a perfect ‘V.’ His arms come down to his hips and he cracks his back. 

“Good start to the day.” Keith comments, more to himself than anyone else. He looks back at Shiro watching him from the bed. “Spar with me?” 

*

Which is how Shiro ends up in the Atlas’ main gym, standing opposite Keith on a training mat, just prior to six a.m. The full lights aren’t quite on overhead, casting the large training room in some artificial semblance of early morning dawn. The doors are open, but no one is passing down the hallway. The free weights and machines on the far side of the room are all unoccupied for now. It’s quiet. 

They’ve stretched, and gone a few light rounds to warm up, 

And Shiro might have been happy to leave it at that---a light, easy workout---if it wasn’t for Keith’s sharp mouth. The glint of his almost-fangs as he grins knowingly at Shiro’s standard technique. Shiro’s form is impeccable; he did, afterall used to instruct all those years ago at the Garrison. 

There’s a back and forth. A rush of movement between them, Shiro on the offensive, Keith out of reach. 

Shiro’s form is impeccable. Shiro’s form is  _ predictable _ . 

Shiro moves predictably and Keith steps out of the way, words sharp and teasing in his mouth: 

“Still asleep, Shiro? Thought I already woke you up this morning?” Keith is all raw edges here: sharp scrutinizing gaze, deadlysharp blade wielded like an extension of himself. Shiro watches Keith, light on his feet, steady in his breaths as they square off. 

Shiro flexes his palm, spreading synthetic fingers wide and then into a fist. It goes numb as turbulent quintessence overtakes the usual guiding force of his control. The spark of competition catches flame in his gut. 

“I think you’ll find I’m very much awake.” Shiro returns. He deepens his stance into something darker, feral in comparison to the regulation technique taught on Garrison grounds long ago. This is self-made. 

Keith tilts his head, bratty and gratified all at once. The angled, calculating look is familiar. Young Keith and accomplished Keith and  _ his _ Keith, all rolled up into one look. It says,  _ prove it. _

Shiro measures the look, unable to bite back the grin that overtakes his mouth in response. Keith won’t let him win easily. 

If Shiro were anyone else, he would miss it: the liquid way Keith’s shoulders drop. That’s the only tell before Keith is on him, a blur of steel and indigo and black. Sharp and fast and cunning. Playful, smart in how he responds to Shiro’s parry. Circling him, not out of breath, not even close.

Shiro lets out a yell and attacks with full force---Shiro is deceptively fast for his size, and he knows Keith as well as Keith knows him. Keith moves as Shiro expects and Shiro has him caught, at least that’s what he thinks. They wrestle and Keith manages to escape. When he stands, his eyes are all lit up, more gold than white. 

He’s beautiful. Shiro doesn’t give him a chance to catch his breath before he attacks again.

They spar and dawn becomes morning and people trickle into the Atlas’ main gym. 

They attract an audience. 

The full lights of the training hall flicker on at 0600 hours and with them, a few members of the Atlas’ crew find their way to the gym. Headphones come out, morning workouts get delayed. This is more interesting than pre-breakfast training drills. 

_ “What’s going on?”  _ Shiro hears someone hiss from the crowd. 

_ “The captain is sparring with the Black Paladin!!”  _ comes the excited reply. 

Shiro parries a blow to his stomach, steps out of Keith’s range. “Black Paladin  _ and _ Commander of the Blades of Marmora,” he corrects the crew member. Keith levels him with a well placed kick and Shiro rolls to his feet, once again forced on the defensive. 

“Sure you can afford to be distracted?” Keith asks, 

“Sure you can afford to be so cocky?” Shiro retorts. He thinks he has him, but Keith expertly manipulates his grip, using it for leverage; he slides backwards on the mat in a display of agility and strength. His blade goes flying; he catches it midair with the opposite hand. 

“Show off!!” Someone else shouts. (This time, the someone sounds suspiciously like Lance.) 

Keith tosses the hair out of his eyes, grinning at Shiro. He flips the knife around and rushes towards him again. 

Shiro’s heart is pumping in his ears and he’s sure the expression on his face is one of ferocity unbefitting his position as Captain. But he’s not captain here, not really. He is Keith’s and Keith is his. His best friend, his brother-in-arms, his right hand, his lover, his partner. His Keith. 

It’s likely this stray sentimental thought that gives Keith the opening. 

Shiro is distracted, just for a moment, and Keith seizes the opportunity. He’s got Shiro pinned in an instant, face to the mat, positioned in just such a way that Shiro can see the sharpness of victory overtake Keith’s expression. Shiro’s metal wrist caught between the flat of Keith’s blade and the ground. His other arm twisted just shy of painful under Keith’s knee. There’s a moment where Shiro’s world narrows to the heave of Keith’s chest, the way he inhales thick around Shiro’s name as he leans in close. The beads of perspiration catching at his chin, dripping to slide down Shiro’s cheek. When he speaks, his breath is hot on the back of Shiro’s neck. “Yield, Captain.” 

Shiro doesn’t need to struggle to know that Keith’s hold is ironclad. He lets his body go lax. “Keith. I yield.” 

Keith climbs off of Shiro and offers him a hand up. There’s a smattering of applause. 

The color is high in Keith’s cheeks and his hair is once again a mess. He lifts the bottom of the loose fitting black tank top he’s wearing to wipe sweat from his face, down his neck, to the jut of his collarbones. Heaves out one long, satisfied sigh before looking up at Shiro. Perfectly innocent. “Best two out of three?” 

Shiro pauses, straightens from where he’s about to reach for his hydration pouch. He raises his eyebrows. He still hasn’t quite caught his breath, but his reply is steady: “What do you think.” 

Keith huffs out a laugh and turns to the crowd. Scans it for a moment. He latches onto a familiar face: 

“Lance!” He barks. “Spar with me!” 

Lance looks up like a deer caught in the headlights. His hair is artfully tousled and the tanktop he’s wearing says ‘TOO FIT TO QUIT’ across the chest. (Shiro suspects he mostly visits the gym to take selfies these days.) Lance unfreezes and shoots Keith a couple of snappy fingerguns. “No.” He clicks his tongue. “Absolutely not.” 

“Anybody?” Keith looks genuinely distraught at the lack of challenge now that Shiro has decided to tap out. Shiro  _ would _ be concerned about Keith’s apparent desire to pummel his crew, except for the fact that Keith is accustomed to the much more rigorous training regimens of the Blades. 

_ “I taught him everything he knows,” _ Lance is telling some of the younger crew, in a hissing whisper just loud enough for Keith and Shiro to hear.  _ “It’d just be too easy, and I don’t wanna hurt him…”  _

“We can go two-on-two and do a team exercise,” Shiro offers. 

The crowd quickly disperses as people suddenly remember their typical morning routines. Shiro can’t imagine why. 

He loops an arm around Keith’s waist, pulling him closer. Keith is supposed to be on vacation this week anyways. “Hit the showers with me,” Shiro says, his voice low, nose pressed into Keith’s temple. 

“Yes sir,” Keith responds, his ideal training regimen quickly abandoned. 

And Keith does not count it as much of a tragedy, Shiro thinks. 

Not when Shiro closes the door to the communal shower room behind them. And locks it with a press of his palm to the keypad. (There are slight advantages to being mentally connected to a semi-sentient alien warship.)

Not when Shiro peels off his shirt and Keith’s eyes shift from sharp to smouldering. The water hits them both hard and hot and the room fills the large shower stall with steam. 

Shiro backs him into cold tile and Keith manages to undo the snap of his fingerless gloves---the last of his clothes---at the same time that Shiro sinks to his knees. The gloves hit the floor with two wet smacks as Shiro gets his mouth on Keith. He wastes no time in swallowing him down. 

“S-Shiro-” Keith pants, shoulders rolled up to his ears, bottom lip caught in his teeth. His thighs quiver, toes curling against the tile. 

Shiro can go deeper. Keith’s fingernails threaten claws as they drag against Shiro’s scalp. 

Shiro takes Keith apart right there, partly in retaliation for rough treatment on the training mat, partly as reciprocation for his earlier morning greeting, mostly because he wants to. 

Afterwards, Keith hauls Shiro to his feet, pulls him close. Demanding to have Shiro’s weight against him, demanding to taste himself in Shiro’s mouth. Shiro obliges, and kisses down his neck, until Keith is shivering in his hold, despite the thick, hot steam that surrounds them. 

“Shiro,” Keith sighs, “Fuck,” 

“Oh I’m not finished,” Shiro tells him. He catches Keith’s hand where it’s settled against him and presses a rough kiss into his knuckles. “Turn around, baby,” 

Keith doesn’t listen directly and Shiro is already running late for his a.m. meeting with his bridgecrew. (He is not thinking about his a.m. meeting with his bridgecrew.) 

Keith doesn’t listen directly so Shiro shuffles him around, pressing Keith face first into the shower wall. He parts the hair on the back of Keith’s neck with a finger, just enough to press a kiss there, right to the delicate curve of his spine. And he kisses down that spine, between Keith’s shoulder blades, lower. Shiro’s thumb fits just so in the dimple above Keith’s ass as his hand settles on Keith’s hip. “Be good,” he intones, voice just commanding enough that Keith’s breath hitches above the pounding shower. 

Shiro would take him right here, but the communal bathrooms off the training hall are not stocked with lube. His hands and his mouth will have to do. He sinks to his knees again. 

“A-ah. Fuck! Shi--yeah, ye-ah,” 

Shiro sees to it that Keith comes a second, and then a third time. (Shiro has a soul-deep appreciation for Keith’s Galra heritage and the stamina that comes with it.) After, Shiro stands, jaw sore, but very pleased. Keith all but collapses against Shiro’s chest. Shiro chuckles. 

“Baby, c’mere, I’ll wash your hair,” Shiro tells him, pulling Keith under the spray. 

Keith nods, but he puts in very little effort to follow directions. Shiro does most of the washing up for both of them, and Keith mostly keeps his face pillowed between Shiro’s pecs. But they are marginally more clean. He turns the spray off and attempts to convince Keith to stand up straight. 

“Keith.” Shiro says, trying to peel him off so that they can go get dressed. 

Keith is stubborn. He tightens his hold around Shiro. 

“Really?” Shiro asks. He hikes Keith up in one arm and carries him out of the shower to get towels and fresh clothes. 

“This is just ridiculous, Keith.” 

Keith mumbles something against his neck. 

“What?” 

Keith slides down from his arm and clears his throat. “I said, you’re a sore loser, Takashi.” 

Shiro blinks and drops a towel over Keith’s head. The tips of his ears start to burn, but his skin is still hot from the long shower, so Keith probably won’t be able to tell.

No, 

Keith can definitely tell. 

Keith peeks out from under the towel and looks up at Shiro. His eyes are lit up with teasing, and his mouth is pulled into a knowing smirk. 

Shiro runs a hand along his jaw, half hiding his smile. He shrugs in begrudging agreement. 

Keith laughs, bumping his shoulder into Shiro. “For the record: I don’t mind.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “For the record: you started it.” 

Keith looks absolutely dumbfounded with betrayal the split second before he balls up his towel and chucks it at Shiro’s head. 

The bridgecrew are correct in their decision not to comment when Shiro walks in an hour and a half late to the a.m. briefing. 

*

Unfortunately, Shiro ends up working through lunch to make up for the lost time. 

After they ate breakfast together, Keith went back to the captain’s suite, probably to check in with the Blades, or, more likely, to fit in a mid-morning nap. 

Shiro gets caught in a whirlwind of semi-mundane tasks: the various day-to-day housekeeping of the Atlas, correspondence with their assorted allies, as well as gathering background information in preparation for the Coalition’s latest initiative. 

The hours tick by both excruciatingly slow and also so fast he barely realizes it. It’s closing in on 1400 AST before he stops to check his comm. He has a missed call from Keith. He’ll call him back soon, but first, 

Shiro finishes the message he’s drafting to the leaders of Ermelia, a cluster of colonies populated by citizens of three planets in a nearby star system. He sends it to the translation and localization team so that they can do a thorough scan to check for possible issues with the text before it reaches the desks of Ermelian diplomats. Leaning back in his chair, Shiro takes off the glasses he’s started using for office work. He yawns, eyes scrunching shut, arms outstretched so wide something in his back cracks. 

His eyes all gummy from staring at a holoscreen, he pulls the hovering task manager from where it’s floating towards the side of his workspace to blearily mark one more task ‘complete.’ Wonderful. Now there are only about two thousand more to go. Joy. Rapture. 

The lock on his private office flips. Shiro holds back a sigh and straightens up in his chair. He is not scheduled to meet with anyone for at least another varga. 

The door slides open, “No, no, by all means, come in,” Shiro drawls, expecting to see a gratingly cheerful officer wanting ‘a moment’---also known as giving Shiro a problem to fix. 

Instead it’s Allura. She gives Shiro a little wave and looks around to make sure the office is otherwise empty. 

The door seals shut behind her. 

“Aughhhhhhh,” she groans. Her poised expression drops. Her perfect posture slumps. 

“That good, huh?” Shiro asks. 

“You,” she says, stepping out of her heels, “Simply have no idea. You cannot begin to  _ fathom _ ,” 

“Lemme guess.” Shiro grins as she pulls out the chair opposite his desk and lifts up her skirts to sit cross legged in it. “Curtis.” 

“I’m going to punch him in the face!” Allura proclaims, smacking Shiro’s desk for emphasis. His mostly dead potted plant rattles with each word. The poor thing did not sign up for gratuitous abuse in space. Shiro can relate; he moves it out of harm’s way. 

“It won’t be befitting of a princess, but what can I do?!” She shakes her head. “At this point, I fear it’s that or launching him into the nearest sun.” 

“Reasonable,” Shiro agrees. “Incredibly reasonable. Set a time. Let me know when. I’ll help.” 

Allura lifts up a finger, one perfectly manicured pink nail catching the light, and closes her eyes. “Just one, Shiro. I’d like to go just  _ one day _ ,” 

“Tell me he didn’t Reply All to confidential material again,” Shiro says, flicking his holoscreens shut, one-by-one. They snap out of existence with a satisfying hiss. 

Allura huffs out something between a laugh and a cry. “Thank the Ancients, no.” She rolls her hair into a bun and leans forward to grab a pen from a mug that says ‘Back in my day, we had nine planets.’ (It was a gift from Matt.) After using the pen to secure her hair, she continues: “You remember that I had a meeting scheduled with Tisfan and Alarc, this morning,”

“The diplomats from Lilul, I remember,” Shiro nods. They arrived aboard the Atlas for a small conference shortly after Keith returned. Shiro hasn’t spent much time with them. 

“Right,” Allura continues. “So, naturally, I asked Curtis to reserve Meeting Room Three,” 

“Because that’s his job,” Shiro agrees. Curtis is supposed to be the chief communications liaison. Usually he’s just an ass. 

“Yes,” Allura nods, “And you know that Meeting Room One had that unfortunate incident with the Glarchesks and ever since then I just don’t feel  _ comfortable _ with the energy there, and Meeting Room Two has a poor SPT connection, and of course, we’ll need to be in close communication with the Lilullian homeworld, and, at any rate, I just  _ like  _ Room Three,” 

Shiro is nodding along with one finger on his mouth. “Room Three also has the best chairs out of the three main offices,” he points out. 

“Yes,” Allura claps, “Yes! You know this, I know this, we  _ all  _ know this. So, Room Three,” 

“I don’t know how Curtis could mess this up,” Shiro sighs, 

“He’s a buffoon,” Allura says, rolling her eyes. “Just listen. So I arrive at Meeting Room Three at the appointed time, well, actually twenty doboshes before the appointed time, and. There is no one about.” 

“No one?” 

“Absolutely no one,” Allura confirms, “And I think, well, perhaps they’re simply running late. So I get everything set up---I even had a seating plan arranged, if you can believe that---and still, no one arrives.” 

“Did he forget to reserve it?” Shiro asks. 

“That, Shiro, would be reasonable. No! He did not forget. Curtis simply took it upon himself to schedule the entire affair in  _ Lab Room 6. _ On deck E.” 

“Is he an idiot?!” 

“Yes!” Allura slumps back in the chair. “The  _ labs _ , Shiro. And, do you know how I found out?! Veronica texted me! She just happened to see Alarac in the hallway! Otherwise I would have been wandering around the entire quiznacking ship before I found them!” 

“You might as well have all your meetings in Coran’s bedroom,” Shiro snorts. “Makes just as much sense as the research deck.” 

Allura trills out a laugh---her real one, not the one Shiro hears so often at official events. “Exactly! He later informed me that he sent out a notice, but I have no record of it. By the time I arrived, our guests were in a stupor from listening to him drone on and on. And! After I did get there, he spent the remainder of the meeting talking over me! I only was able to cover a couple of the points I had wanted to bring up, some of which are crucial for our upcoming alliance.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “It’s his ego that’s the problem…” 

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to simply punch him in the---” 

The door unlocks, 

“Who are we punching?” Keith asks, slipping into Shiro’s office. 

“I’ll give you one guess,” Shiro says. 

Keith doesn’t even hesitate. “Curtis. What the hell did he do now?” 

Allura tells the story a second time. 

“That dumb bitch.” Keith sighs. He’s settled into the chair next to Allura, legs spread wide, one of his boots pulled up on the seat. He looks at Shiro. “How did he even get on your ship again?” 

Shiro waves a hand. “His parents have some kind of connection with the Garrison.” 

Allura snorts. “Well they most assuredly don’t have a connection with scheduling meeting rooms.” 

Keith looks sly for a moment. He drops his foot and leans over to Allura, conspiratorial: “Did Shiro tell you about the time Curtis hit on Vegrix?”

Allura’s eyes light up. “He didn’t!” 

Shiro groans. As if the human race needed another source of embarrassment. They already have the whole ‘ignoring global warming’ thing against them. And also Lance. 

Keith hoots in laughter. “So. Remember when we had the conference on Trilep,”

He’s in rare form, delighted to tell the story of Curtis refusing to take no for an answer when propositioning one of the Blades. The Blades are an honorable, serious bunch, and, to make a long story short, Curtis is  _ very _ lucky to have all of his members still attached to his body. His general douchery is infamous among them now. 

(As the only human in the room (arm and mass-manufactured body notwithstanding), Shiro has to cringe at least a little. Let it be known that not  _ all  _ of his species is without basic decency. Purportedly.) 

“Quiznacking sakes,” Allura sighs, a little later, pulling up a notif on her comm. She tugs the pen from her hair and it falls around her shoulders, once more perfectly in place.“I’m going to have to be headed out soon, and I haven’t even bothered to ask you about your day, Shiro. How are things going with the Ermelia proposal?” 

“Fine,” Shiro says, noncommittal. He’s more interested in the cute expression on Keith’s face as he pokes around Shiro’s desk. He found a pad of sticky notes and is working on doodling a note, it seems. The tip of his tongue is sticking out of his mouth while he concentrates. 

Shiro leans forward to get a look at the drawing. Keith pulls the pad of sticky notes out of reach and levels Shiro with a glare. Shiro plays dirty; his synthetic arm has an impressive reach when he puts his mind to it. 

A slow, delighted smile crosses Allura’s glossy lips. A quiet laugh behind one hand. 

Shiro stops tussling with Keith. “What?”

“Nothing!” She says, genuine and warm. “You’re just happy. Evidently too happy to complain about paperwork. I think we know who is responsible.” 

Keith’s eyes flick up from his note. “Curtis,” he deadpans. 

Shiro and Allura both groan. 

“Don’t.” Shiro warns, 

“Never say his name,” Allura implores. “The mere mention...I cannot.” 

Keith snorts. 

“Oh, right! Before I go,” Allura taps on her comm, pulling up a certain file. “I wanted to show you this, Shiro. Keith too. What’s the Earth expression? I think you’ll find a kick in it.” 

_ “Find a kick?” _ Keith mouths under his breath, brow furrowed. His eyes shift to the side as he contemplates. 

“If it’s the space skiing, I’ve already had the pleasure,” Shiro tells her. 

“No no, this is cute.One of the girls on the Bridge this morning showed it to me,” Allura places her comm flat on Shiro’s desk, and a holoscreen floats above it. The clip starts: two people are standing apart from a crowd. They’re holding hands, obviously a couple. One of them breaks away, starting to speak, 

Without warning, Keith smacks the comm off the desk---it goes flying and hits the far wall of Shiro’s office. 

“Oh,” Allura says, blinking. 

“Kei--” 

“Sorry!” Keith shifts his weight, seeming to have acted on pure instinct before. He looks at the comm on the floor as if he’s just as surprised as Shiro and Allura as to how it got there. “Sor---I, uh, didn’t,” He strides across the room, and picks it up off the floor. “It’s fine,” he tells them, relieved. “Sorry about that.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Allura says, slowly. She retrieves it from him and tucks it back within one of the pockets of her skirt, safe. 

“Sorry, princess,” Keith says again. He gives her a small, nervous smile. 

She looks at Keith’s red face, and then back to Shiro---Shiro who has just been sitting there bewildered. 

Something must click. 

Shiro has known Allura long enough to see the delighted mischief cross her face---even though she is trying to hide it. 

“Allura,” Shiro starts, 

“I’ll be going now,” she interrupts, smiling. “Shiro, Keith,” she steps back into her heels, once more the picture of royalty, “I expect to be the first to know.” 

“Know what?” Shiro asks, slightly annoyed. He doesn’t like how pleased she looks by all of this. 

The door slides shut behind her. 

“Keith. Know what?” Shiro repeats. 

Keith has found Shiro’s glasses on the desk. Head bowed so that his hair is covering his face, he fiddles with them a moment before walking over to Shiro’s side of the desk. He unfolds the glasses and slides them on Shiro’s face. 

Shiro raises his eyebrows. He’s not so easily distracted. 

“Keith. The video---”

“You look hot with glasses,” Keith blurts. 

Shiro can’t help but smile. “Is that so? Okay, now let’s talk about---”

“Sexy!” Keith practically shouts.

“---the video,” 

“Like a professor,” Keith says, leaning close, one hand on Shiro’s shoulder. Close enough that his breath ghosts over Shiro’s skin. He’s possibly trying to be seductive, but...failing. 

(Keith, 

The rasp of his voice--the way it curls around words, smokey and slow. His hands, pale, sturdy, deceptively strong. The dark hair on his forearms, his stomach, wispy and gorgeous on his thighs. The cut of his jaw, the crook of his smile, the way one incisor is turned, just slightly. 

The way he flies. Bold and fierce and instinctual. The way he fights. 

The way he says Shiro’s name. 

The way Keith looks when he returns to Shiro---no matter how long they’ve been apart. How they come back together and Shiro can feel him shudder in his arms, face buried in Shiro’s neck, inhaling against his skin. 

The way that Shiro can trust Keith. With anything. 

Keith is attractive in many ways, but...seduction is not...him.) 

“Almost like a wet dream I used to have,” Keith practically purrs into Shiro’s ear. He shifts, body weight pressing ever so slightly into Shiro’s lap. “During my Garrison days,”

...Actually, 

“Keith,” This time it comes out strangled. Embarrassingly hot under the collar, Shiro shifts in his office chair. “What,” 

Keith stands up and sticks the sticky note with the drawing on Shiro’s chest. He presses a kiss to Shiro’s cheek and walks out the door. 

Feeling like his soul might be slightly untethered from his body (it would not be the first time), Shiro weakly peels the sticky note from his chest. 

‘Dinner at six,’ it reads, and underneath Keith’s precise letters, there is a drawing of Kosmo holding a spork. There is a speech bubble coming from the wolf’s mouth and it says ‘Don’t be late.’ 

Shiro does not know if he should laugh, cry, or get up and follow Keith back to their quarters right this fucking moment. 

His task manager application dings. There’s some changes that need to be made in the Ermelia proposal. 

Shiro takes a deep breath. 

*

Shiro is not a saint. 

Shiro never claimed to be a saint. 

Shiro spends the next few hours being slightly less productive than he should be. 

(Because if the video is not porn, which clearly it is not, then  _ what is it?? _ ) 

If one were to ask him if he could use his administrator privileges as the Captain of the Atlas to access the data, of, for example, someone’s comm device, 

To, theoretically, view media, in the form of video clips, 

Shiro would tell that individual that such a breach of decorum would be incredibly unethical and also just plain skeevy. 

He would also tell that individual that he is a  _ pilot _ , primarily, and that hacking is, really, not in his wheelhouse. Being mentally connected to a semi-sentient alien warship does not make one all powerful, turns out. 

He considers texting Pidge. 

He does not text Pidge. 

(He does, on a whim, alter Curtis’ schedule to include only early shifts for the standard cleaning duty that all officers share. Very early.) 

Shiro gets less done than he should, and, at exactly 5:08 p.m. (17:08 AST), he decides that is enough for the day. He heads home.

*

He opens the door to an empty apartment. 

“Keith?” Shiro pads to their bedroom, changing. He has his comm in hand, but no new messages from Keith. The rooms are quiet without Keith’s music, or the turning of pages in a book. The snuffle of a cosmic wolf-monster. 

He hums, closing the shutter over the long window looking out into open space. The closest star system is far off; it blinks out of sight with a gentle click as the shutter locks in place. He trusts that Keith will be home soon. 

The kitchenette shows signs of meal-prep. A couple of bowls recently washed by the sink. Glass containers with mysterious marinades in the fridge. Shiro takes one out and sniffs. Should he venture a taste?

“Shiro! Stop!” Keith marches over from the entryway, leaving a trail of jacket and shoes in his wake. He snatches the bowl away from Shiro.“That’s toxic when raw!” 

Shiro shuts the door to the fridge. Last he checked the refrigerator held zero biohazards, but he is well aware that Life Comes At You Fast. Sometimes intrepid research missions to the moons of Pluto get a person involved in galactic war. Sometimes food is toxic when raw. Keith has always been good at rescuing him. 

“Keith. You saved me.” 

Keith cracks a smile. “I’m also the one who put it there in the first place. But. Yeah.” 

“Humble!” Shiro marvels, gathering Keith up into his arms. He squeezes. Hard. He hasn’t forgotten Keith’s little moment earlier. “And a fucking tease!! What was that in the office?!” 

Keith flails, giggling and snorting as Shiro blows a raspberry against his neck. “Get off!!” 

Shiro tightens his hold and shuffles them around the kitchen, pushing Keith into a counter. He ignores Keith’s huffs at being manhandled and plants another sloppy kiss onto one of his cheeks. And another. 

Keith manages to break free enough to look up into Shiro’s face. Red faced and pouting. “Hey. I got you home early didn’t I?” 

“You did.” Shiro agrees. He lets Keith push him aside and watches while Keith starts retrieving all of the ingredients for dinner out of the fridge and cabinets. “And now I can help you cook.” 

Keith turns and looks at him. He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear, purses his lips. His eyes flick to a charred mark on the wall behind the stove. Back to Shiro. 

“Watch you cook and follow directions for menial tasks.” Shiro amends. (He privately thinks that the Atlas is keeping that burnt spot un-fixed just to shame him.) 

Dinner, it turns out, is a traditional Galran dish that Keith has picked up from spending time on Daibazaal. But it’s not something that a person could order in a restaurant; it’s more like something Krolia makes as a comfort meal for the two of them after a busy day. Simple and economical and filling and good. The kind of thing that Keith might have grown up eating if he had been raised outside of the foster system. 

It hurts Shiro’s heart a little to think of it. To see Keith so content now, loose and relaxed and confident. Muttering to himself as he throws things together, smiling shyly at Shiro when he notices. Compared to how he was as a kid when they first met, it’s like night and day. How different would Keith have been if he had grown up like this? Would their paths still have crossed? What would---

“Shiro!” 

Shiro looks to find Keith blinking in concern at the bubbling mess on the stovetop. Shiro is supposed to have been stirring. 

“Let me,” Keith commands, pushing him out of the way. He has a rough touch as he whips the dish back into shape, but it seems that’s what it needed. Keith sneaks a taste out of the pan with bare fingers, hisses when it’s hot, and then sticks it in his mouth anyways. He chews, eyes fluttering shut while he contemplates. “It’s almost done.” 

*

Whatever it is---Shiro can’t quite get his mouth around the mix of consonants to pronounce it---the food smells amazing, and it tastes even better. They eat it right there in the kitchen, partly because Shiro has been sitting all day, and partly because Galrans don’t exactly have kitchen tables; they typically eat in groups around the cooking range. 

Keith’s shoulder knocks into Shiro’s as they lean side-by-side against the counter. They take turns doling out portions of the food onto smaller dishes. When Shiro looks down towards Keith, Keith grins up at him before taking another bite. It’s somehow casual and intimate all at once. 

Shiro asks Keith about his day. 

“Good.” Keith nods, dragging a piece of not-exactly-bread through the sauce from the meat before popping it in his mouth. “Really good. Talked to mom this morning, and this afternoon, I got to catch up with Hunk.” He pushes a finger in his mouth, sucking it clean with a smack before continuing. “He helped me with the ingredients. Do you like it?” 

“Keith. It’s perfect.” Shiro says, genuine. He usually opts for the mess hall, leaving his kitchen untouched---a home cooked meal like this is nothing short of divine. “How is Krolia?” 

Krolia is well. Keith tells Shiro a long and pointless story about the minutiae of her week; Shiro hangs on to every word. 

They eat and talk and Shiro smiles stupidly and Keith once again eats more than he should logically be able to hold. When he finally finishes, Shiro helps him box up the leftovers for the fridge. That finished, he encircles both his hands around Keith’s waist and unceremoniously lifts him to sit on the small section of counter that’s not a mess. 

“Shiro!” 

Shiro swallows down the sound of his own name, immediately setting himself between Keith’s thighs. Keith's legs wrap around his waist like they belong there (they do). Shiro pulls Keith down towards him, kissing the taste of smoke and spice from his mouth. He kisses Keith until they’re both lazy about it; Shiro’s hands settled on his waist, his thigh. Keith’s hands settled against his cheeks, holding Shiro in place with the lightest of touches. 

Shiro is the one who cleans up---it’s only fair, since Keith orchestrated the meal. He runs a big sinkful of soapy water and does the dishes. When he turns around, Keith bumps a socked foot against his ass and then pretends he didn’t. Shiro flicks water in his face. 

Dishes done and counters wiped down, leftovers packed away, they settle down on the couch. 

Or rather, Shiro settles while Keith scrolls endlessly through the channels, scowling and swearing under his breath about the lack of content. It’s a moot point, as far as Shiro is concerned: as soon as Keith curls up next to him, Shiro is going to nod off. 

He likes that, when he falls asleep with Keith next to him on the couch. It’s unlike falling asleep on the couch after one of their many holochats. He knows now that when he falls asleep, Keith will carry him back to their bed and they’ll wake up tangled together in the morning. He won’t be alone. 

Keith chooses something with not much plot and a lot of action scenes. The characters are shouting in the majority of the scenes; Keith occasionally shouts back when one of them does something especially stupid. Shiro leans against him, hearing more the rumble in his chest than actual words. Keith is warm. 

*

Shiro blinks awake to find Keith standing over him. 

“Go back to sleep,” Keith says, too fond. He brushes Shiro’s hair off his forehead, gentle. Shiro catches Keith’s hand with his own and plants a kiss into his palm. 

“What’d I miss?” he asks, holding Keith’s hand hostage until he’s told. 

“The beginning, middle, and end.” Keith sits down next to him. He doesn’t attempt to pull his hand back. 

With great effort, Shiro sits up. “Well, damn.” Keith rolls his eyes and Shiro continues, “That’s all of it.” 

Keith shrugs, smile light on his mouth. It’s no great loss. 

When Shiro clearly isn’t going to be getting upright any time soon, Keith relaxes into the cushions. Shiro still has one of Keith’s hands in his own. Keith uses the other to thumb through his comm, lazily deleting mails from people to whom he doesn’t care to respond (Lance) and liking funny posts that pop up on the shipwide message board.

He snorts out a chuckle at one and leans close to show Shiro: it’s a picture of Iverson’s dog wearing a little sweater. Iverson is not great at taking pictures, so it’s blurry, but Cheeto (his dog) is obviously grumpy at being clothed in Garrison orange and beige. 

“Nice,” Keith approves, thumbing the button that shows he likes it. A little shooting star shows up in the corner. 

“What’s that,” Shiro leans over Keith’s lap, clicking on a video. It has a lot of stars. 

It looks suspiciously like the video Allura was going to show them earlier. 

Also very similar to the videos that Keith has saved on his holoport. 

“Keith,” Shiro starts, noting that Keith is pointedly looking anywhere but his face. 

His body goes stiff. 

He mutters something that Shiro doesn’t catch. 

“I’m curious about the video.” Shiro admits. He sits up slightly. 

Keith inhales. 

He blows out a breath. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Keith. If--if it’s something private that you don’t want to share, it’s okay. I’m just.” Shiro shrugs. “Curious. Really curious.” 

“No, it’s not like that.” Taking a breath---as if he’s steeling himself against the inevitable---Keith hits play. 

It’s a video that went viral a week before Keith returned to the Atlas. Shiro watched it with a bunch of officers before a meeting. It was cute. He’s forgotten about it entirely: 

_ A couple is standing next to each other, smiling as if posing for the camera. They’re in front of the main structure of one of Earth’s recently expanded moon colonies.  _

_ “Three, two, one----” Someone from behind the camera is counting down. But instead of taking the picture, the video continues.  _

_ The man parts from the woman at his side. He drops to one knee. Pulls out a small box from his pocket.  _

_ Her hands fly to her face, she bursts into happy tears. “No!”  _

_ “Shelby,” the man says, broad smile, catching her hand before she gets too far, “I love you. Will you marry me?”  _

_ Shelby will indeed marry him. The man stands. They kiss. _ The video ends. 

A proposal video. Shiro has seen plenty of them in the past. They tend to range from incredibly cringey to mildly sweet. Generally, sensationalist quasi-romantic spectacles. Slightly traditionalist, a touch heteronormative, very unnecessary. He doesn’t understand why Keith would--- 

Next to Shiro, Keith’s hand raises to his eyes, quick, before darting back down again. Shiro opens and closes his mouth. Keith is blinking back tears. 

In the bottom of the screen, there’s a column of similar videos under the heading ‘recommended for you.’ All of them are proposal videos. There is a little green check on the corner of each one, indicating that Keith has watched it before. 

“Shit like this always gets me,” Keith says thickly. “And there’s so many.” 

“Keith…” Shiro is at a loss. 

Keith crosses his arms across his chest and tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes. His face is red and his chest where his collar dips down is blotchy. “I know it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Shiro argues, fighting back the smile that’s pulling on his lips. “I--”

“Don’t laugh!” Keith says, hot. He shoots a look at Shiro and then shuffles closer, hiding his face. 

“Keith---baby,” Shiro is smiling now, “I’m not laughing. Not a bit.” 

Keith sits up and glares at him. 

Shiro does laugh then---just a little. “Not at you!” he promises when Keith shoves a knuckle into his ribs. There’s very few people in the universe who would believe him if he told them about this Keith. 

Brilliant and fragile and sentimental and sweet. His Keith. 

“They’re just.” Keith sits up and spreads his hands in the inexpressible. “They’re just!” 

“It’s cute,” Shiro supplies. 

“They’re in love!” Keith croaks out. “They know! They--” 

He continues to rant, hands turning in the air in front of Shiro, stabbing with his fingers for emphasis. At one point, he goes and gets the holoport and sets it up and shows Shiro his top favorites, sniffling all the while. 

And this? This pocket-of-happiness, this trivial moment when the war is behind them, and the vastness of space is all around them, and Keith is warm and open and happy at his side? To Shiro, this is a kind of rest that outweighs the deepest exhaustion. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Shiro, some time later: wait a minute…does Allura think we’re getting married?? Because of the proposals? Is that what she meant?  
> Keith (has been married to Shiro in his head since he was 16): I dunno 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Not too long ago I finished a slow burn [canonverse series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618870) that had a lot of Feelings and a fair bit of angst. This kinda fic was just the thing I needed to put into the universe to even things out. In the end, every fic I write turns into an ode to keith and this one is no different, but lol I hope you enjoyed!! If you feel like it, leave a comment or a kudos and I will be really happy to see it :>
> 
> My [twitter](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan)! should you wish to see my love for keith and exhausted shiro energy in real time. lol I am always pro keith


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